


Decision

by Wilusa



Series: Later Imaginings [6]
Category: Carnivale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:16:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilusa/pseuds/Wilusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben deals with a personal problem, and charts a course for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decision

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.

"Samson?" Ben Hawkins tapped lightly on the door of the Management trailer. "It's me, Ben."

"Shit, Hawkins," Samson called out, "I know your voice! C'mon in."

He went inside and stood looking down at the carny boss - no longer _his_ boss - who was seated at his desk, counting the previous night's receipts.

Samson finally glanced up. "Yeah?" Then he did a double take, starting so violently that the hat he wore indoors and out fell off his balding head. _"What the hell -?"_

Ben seldom smiled, but he couldn't suppress a chuckle.

Samson looked him up and down. "Ye gods. I know you ain't been shavin' since you talked to the press. But have you got somethin' against pullin' a comb through your hair now? An' what ragbag did you find them clothes in? You look like somethin' I wouldn't even hire as a roustie!"

That was saying a lot.

Ben didn't answer directly. Instead, he said, "I'm goin' into town, Samson. Just wanted to let you know. I'm gonna take that old jalopy Gecko left behind, what ain't got no Carnivale symbol on it. Okay?"

Samson frowned. He took time to retrieve his hat and cram it back on his head. Then he said, "If there's stuff you need in town, Hawkins, I can have one o' the rousties pick it up for you."

"No." Meeting the older man's eyes, Ben said levelly, "It ain't that. What I _need_ is to go myself."

"Then you should take bodyguards."

"No!" He added quickly, "I spent hours roamin' 'round the midway yesterday, dressed like this. Not a soul recognized me."

He didn't have to explain what he meant. They both knew he wasn't at risk of being recognized as fugitive Ben Hawkins, wanted for killing a guard during an escape from a chain gang in Oklahoma. The authorities there had accepted that he was dead, and sent out word to scrap the Wanted posters they'd circulated; it was unlikely any had even been sent this far west. His concern now was to avoid being recognized as Benjamin St. John, the clean-cut healer whose photo had appeared in newspapers everywhere in the aftermath of New Canaan.

Samson shook his head. "Ordinary folks may not recognize you an' mob you, but that ain't the real danger. What about Crowe's henchmen? He may have assassins on your tail, just waitin' to catch you alone."

"Crowe can't know for sure whether I'm still travelin' with the carnival," Ben pointed out. Officially, Benjamin St. John was "making a spiritual retreat" at an undisclosed location. "An' besides that, the only ones who'd recognize me in this get-up are Stroud an' Crowe himself. Not much of a risk. Stroud's known to be in New Canaan -"

"Crowe's 'makin' a spiritual retreat,' same as you. Meanin' he could be anywhere."

"Meanin' he could still be in New Canaan. If he ain't, I don't think he'd come after me without his right-hand man. Anyway, I'm willin' to take my chances."

Samson was looking more serious by the moment. He steepled his hands on the desk in front of him and gazed at them, as if debating what he should do.

At last he looked up, sighed, and said heavily, "You really don't want them bodyguards, do you?

"What are you up to, Hawkins? You got a right to come an' go as you please. I'd never try to stop you.

"But I need you to tell me the truth. Are you plannin' to take off for good? Leave an' not come back?"

Before the startled Ben could reply, he raised a hand and continued, "Where you go ain't none o' my business. I just want to know, if you ain't back by sundown" - the health problems that afflicted Ben after dark were an open secret - "whether the search parties I'll send out should be really lookin' for you, or fakin' it. To fool Ruthie."

" _Fool Ruthie?_ Jesus!" Ben leaned over the desk and said forcefully, "You may know my voice, but I reckon you still don't know _me._ I ain't thinkin' o' leavin'. An' if I should, someday, I wouldn't deceive you _or_ Ruthie. I'd never let either o' you think I was just gonna be gone a few hours, an' then not come back!"

"Okay, okay." Samson was visibly relieved. "Sorry if I offended you by suggestin' it. Can I figure, then, you do mean to be back by sundown?"

"Yeah. An' if I ain't -" Ben hesitated. For the first time since New Canaan, he thought about what might befall his friends if they tried to help him.

"Look, Samson, I don't expect no problems today. But when I run into trouble, it's bad. As you've seen.

"So if I don't come back, this time or some other, it will mean somethin's happened to me. But you shouldn't send out search parties. They'd be in too much danger. If I disappear, I want you to let it go, let _me_ go. Promise?"

Samson gaped at him for a long minute.

Then he said softly, "Sorry, kid. If I don't organize search parties, they'll organize themselves. All I can promise is that if the need arises, I'll make sure they're _large,_ _well-armed_ search parties." Before Ben could argue, he added, "If you're aimin' to do somethin' in town today an' get back before dark, shouldn't you start?"

"Oh. Yeah." Ben hated to leave it like that, but he turned and headed for the door.

"Hawkins? Ain't you forgettin' somethin'?"

He looked back. "What?"

"What you prob'ly came for." With a bemused shake of his head, Samson began pawing through the contents of his desk drawer. He found what he wanted, snickered, and tossed it to his departing caller. "The keys to the jalopy!"

x

x

x

An hour later, as Ben drove slowly through the streets of a sleepy Nevada town, he knew he'd made the right choice in getting away from the carnival. _Back there, I'm still findin' it hard to get my mind off what Sofie told me 'bout her an' Jonesy. If only I hadn't blabbed to Libby an' given her false hope! I think that's what I'm maddest about - that Sofie set up a situation that could lead to me makin' a mistake like that._

Sofie was clearly capable of lying; but he saw no reason to doubt her latest story, about her outrageous tryst with Jonesy. _It sure does account for the lie she told before. An' I can't see her inventin' a tale that makes her look just as bad as Jonesy. She admits she knew he was married when she started makin' out with him._

He'd told Sofie exactly what he meant to tell others: _told_ her, not asked her permission. Then he'd shared the bitter truth with Samson and Ruthie. He'd told Libby and Burley only that Sofie had admitted and explained her original lie, and while he couldn't go into detail, Jonesy was undoubtedly dead.

He didn't know how much the betrayed wife suspected.

 _But I gotta stop thinkin' about it, at least for now. I'm here for a purpose._

He thought it highly unlikely that he'd encounter Justin Crowe or any of his minions. And yet, this was a day on which he fully intended to fight and defeat an enemy.

 _My own cowardice._

He spotted a building that might be what he was looking for, and applied the brake. But a closer look told him he'd been wrong. _Drat. This is the third one. But I can't believe they ain't got the kind I want, around here someplace._

Sure enough, three blocks farther on, a crude sign and arrow indicated that the object of his search could be found on a side street, two blocks east. Tingling with anticipation, he turned east. _The direction o' the sunrise,_ he told himself, as if it might somehow be lucky.

And yes, there it was. The structure was shabby by comparison with the others he'd seen. There were cracks in its stucco walls, and the wooden trim needed painting as badly as he himself needed a shave. But all he cared about were the words that leapt out at him from its sign.

 _Church._

 _Roman Catholic._

Like the one he'd wandered into back in Loving.

 _Yeah, I might o' been able to do this in a Protestant church...or in a meadow...or ridin' up an' down on Colossus! But it's sure to be easier here, with the memory I have o' Loving._

He parked the car and quietly entered the church.

He wasn't Catholic; yet he found himself instinctively doing the appropriate things. Dipping his fingers in the holy water font and crossing himself; dropping to one knee in the aisle out of reverence for what was indicated by a certain light's being on. _It means there's a consecrated Host in the tabernacle..._

 _Huh? How do I know what a "consecrated Host" is? Or a "tabernacle"? Did I learn it from my boon?_

 _No. Or at least, I didn't need whatever may o' come with my boon. I learnt about bein' Catholic from my ancestors. From my pa._

Six months ago, he would have angrily rejected a legacy from that source. Now he clung to it as he fancied his infant self must once have clung to the man.

As he'd hoped, he appeared to be alone in the church. He tried to imagine how bodyguards like Osgood or Burley would have reacted to what he planned to do next - and the thought brought one of his rare smiles to his face. _They'd have me headed to the loony bin, for sure._

Fortunately, he could proceed with no concern for witnesses. He thought another of those telltale lights' _not_ being on meant that there was no priest in the confessional; but he had to be certain. So he cautiously pulled back the curtain and peered into the middle one of the three cubicles.

Empty.

That was what he wanted.

He slipped into one of the two designed for penitents. Knelt there in the dark on the hard wooden bench, with his cheek pressed against the screen behind which no priest awaited him.

He opened his mind. _Scudder?_

 _P-Pa?_

 _Pa? You came to me this way in the church in Loving. Please, can you do it again, now that I **want** you to?_

 _I understand that you were alive then, an' now you're dead. I s'pose that's my fault. But bein' dead didn't stop Lodz from comin' back. An' from what Ruthie's told me, it didn't stop Appy neither._

 _ **Please** , Pa?_

He was still alone.

Tears filled his eyes and trickled, unheeded, down his cheeks.

But he hadn't really expected to contact Scudder. Hoped...not expected.

On to Plan B.

What he _needed_ to contact was not his father or a priest or even God. It was a part of himself: an elusive cluster of memories of what he'd thought and said and done.

 _I either did or didn't kill seventeen thousand people. An' I couldn't o' done such a thing without at some point, at some level o' consciousness, havin' the **intent**._

 _It has to be possible to recover the memory. To face what I've been denyin', an' remember whether I ever did intend to kill Justin's followers._

 _An' then..._

He feared this might be the hardest part of all.

 _An' then...whatever I've done, however bad it is, tell God I'm sorry an' stop lettin' it cripple me. 'Cause that's what I've been doin'._

 _I've been tellin' myself I'm a failure, nothin' but a freak. A useless freak. But I know better'n that. I still have a mission to carry out - I don't have the right to lay around wallowin' in guilt! Even if my soul's already lost, beyond hope o' redemption, that ain't no excuse for betrayin' the millions I'm s'posed to save._

Words came to him now, unbidden, and he whispered them into the darkness. "Bless me, Father. I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned..."

 _Wh-what?_

And then he understood. Understood that while the "Father" he wanted couldn't be behind the screen, he'd been reciting a formula Scudder had used, hundreds if not thousands of times, in making his own Confessions. _You are helpin' me, ain't you, Pa?_

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes; he resolutely brushed them away. And then, as his body slid down to a sitting position on the bench, he sent his thoughts winging back to that fateful day in New Canaan.

x

x

x

 _Start at the beginnin'. The first talk I had with Samson an' Jonesy 'bout Sofie, early that mornin'..._

He tried to remember what he'd been thinking, how he'd felt.

 _I was pissed with Jonesy 'cause he'd stopped me from killin' Brother Justin the night before. He argued that Justin's men woulda turned right around an' killed me, an' I said I'd been prepared to accept that._

 _Then he an' Samson both said Justin's men woulda killed Sofie, too. I couldn't see it. Seemed to me she'd gone totally over to his side. But they kept insistin' that in a life-an'-death situation, Sofie would defend any carny against anyone else - at the cost of her own life, if need be._

 _They'd known her a lot longer than I had, so I figured they were prob'ly right. An' then I felt guilty 'bout havin' misjudged her._

He shuddered. _Yeah. That was what came out of our first talk. I was left feelin' guilty 'bout Sofie._

Could that have predisposed him to go overboard, later, in his reaction to either the possibility of her being dead or Justin's claim that she actually was?

He took a deep breath and forced himself to go on. _Get to our second talk about her. What did I say...an' what did I mean?_

He and Jonesy had been stunned when Samson returned from a visit to Justin's house, and told them Justin had made clear he knew about Sofie's connection with the carnival. Samson believed - correctly, as it turned out - that at that point, she was being held hostage.

 _Samson an' Jonesy were frettin' over what we should do, an' I said, "Forget about her." I shocked them._

 _I explained that I meant we should "forget about her" till after we took Justin out, an' then find an' rescue her. 'Cause if he meant to play her like a hole card, he prob'ly wouldn't hurt her, an' we'd kill him before he got a chance to use her. I told them I didn't like what I was suggestin' no more'n they did. But the looks on their faces..._

 _If I was already feelin' guilty 'bout Sofie, I had to feel worse._

 _An' then...then...Jonesy said, "What if she's dead?"_

What came next?

For a moment, he drew a blank. As he always had before. _Enough o' this shit. I_ _ **will**_ _remember!_

And then he heard his reply.

 _"If she's dead, then God help them all in this valley. Every single last one o' them."_

He curled into a ball on the floor of the confessional. _**Nooo!**_

He'd hoped it wasn't that bad. But Samson had evidently remembered his exact words.

 _Get a grip._ He made himself stop trembling and take deep, regular breaths. _I know what I said, but what did I mean? What was I picturin' in my mind?_

Sitting up straight, he reviewed the conversation again - and yet a third time. Imagining himself back in the Management trailer with Samson and Jonesy, hearing what they said, reacting as he had originally...

 _"What if she's dead?"_

 _"If she's dead, then God help them all in this valley..."_

And there it was. In his mind's eye, he saw the valley being laid waste...

By a colossal storm!

What he'd envisioned doing, in that fleeting moment, was using his powers to raise a storm! A Black Blizzard, as nearly as such a thing could be duplicated in California. A storm that would clearly be of supernatural origin, that would ravage the valley and terrorize its people...and yes, he'd anticipated that a few _might_ die, and more be driven mad.

 _A wicked, wicked thought. A sin._

 _But...but...I didn't picture deliberately strikin' even one person dead!_

His tears flowed freely now. _So...maybe I didn't cause what everyone's callin' the "catastrophe"? What happened warn't nothin' like what I was seein' in that instant. I intended somethin' spectacular, a whopper of a storm - I_ _ **didn't**_ _intend thousands o' deaths._

But he knew he couldn't be sure. Not yet. _I didn't cause it by what I had in mind then, but what about later? After Justin told me Sofie really was dead?_

He tried to organize his thoughts. He'd believed for a time that it was possible Sofie had been dead, he'd tried to use his killing of Justin to restore her to life, and he'd regained consciousness - in the Management trailer - to realize that it hadn't worked, because he'd intended to kill Justin anyway. Then, he'd thought, he might have been so angry that he'd reached out with his mind and brought Sofie back - killing, in his fury, thousands of people in addition to the one that was necessary.

He'd never remembered any of that; it was simply a theory.

 _Could it still be possible? Sofie says she warn't even unconscious. But she coulda been dead when she thought she was just dazed._

 _One way or the other, when Justin told me she was dead, he was wrong. If she died, it was hours later._

 _Did I try to use his death to bring her back? An' if I did, would I have sensed right away that she warn't dead at the time I was killin' him?_

He moaned. _No point in guessin'. I hate rememberin' the fight in the cornfield, but I got no choice. I'll hafta think it through again, like I did our talks in the trailer._

Grimly, he summoned up his memory of the climax of the fight...

x

x

x

For the second time that night, the Usher had walked into a trap.

Ben pounced on him. Gripping his dagger, he drove it at his enemy's chest.

But the dagger broke.

The blade - most of it - skittered off to Ben's left. He had time to see there was no blue blood on it; the skin hadn't been pierced at all. Then Justin flung Ben off him - and slashed him deeply, viciously, in the left side of his lower abdomen.

Ben landed hard, on his back. He was still conscious. But he knew he'd taken a mortal wound.

His enemy bent over him, saying, "Look at you, boy. Such a sad mess." Lifting Ben's head to get a better look, he murmured, "So young..."

Ben knew he was slipping into death. _He knows it too_ , he realized. _An' it was me he wanted. Will he be content with my death, free his hostage?_

He managed to say, "Sofie -"

Justin replied unctuously, "She's waiting for you."

And Ben's anger flared up. _He's already killed her? The heartless bastard!_

That thought triggered another. Suddenly, he heard Belyakov's voice intoning, "A dark heart dwells where branches meet..."

 _Was that the part I was supposed to take literally? "Where branches meet"...in the **tattoo?**_

Justin didn't mean to wait out the few minutes Ben thought he might have left. As he was saying, "I'll be quick. You will not suffer," Ben's eyes frantically sought the blade of his dagger. He saw it - within reach, if he had sufficient strength in his wounded left arm. But there was no time...

And then Justin stopped to gaze up at the heavens, proclaiming, "My Kingdom come!"

Ben grabbed the blade in his left hand, and lunged at the man who'd been about to kill him. This time, what remained of the dagger found the vulnerable spot in that tattooed chest. Justin let out an agonized cry as he staggered backward and then fell, the blade still in him.

Ben fell backward too. He clung to consciousness. But his head was swimming, and the pain in his belly was excruciating.

 _Can't stop now. He's still alive. Gotta...hang on long enough...to finish him...or it will all be...for nothin'!_

He forced himself up to a sitting position, just as a flash of lightning illuminated the lurid scene - and let him see how much blood he'd lost.

He shuddered. _Okay. I know where Justin is. A few feet away. Last journey o' my life, an' it's gonna seem like the longest. But I gotta get there. He ain't in good enough shape to fight me now, but I can't assume he won't snap back later. Can't die in peace till I'm sure_ _ **he's**_ _dead._

The journey was as arduous as he'd expected. But he made it.

Justin's chest was still heaving.

Ben maneuvered himself into the right position, placed both hands over the protruding blade, and pressed down with all his strength.

"Plunge...thee...deep!"

The deed was done.

The tattooed chest was motionless.

And as Ben heard a shockingly loud peal of thunder, he was sure he was about to fall dead over a dead body.

x

x

x

In the present, he was quivering, soaked with sweat. But he'd learned something. _I didn't try to bring Sofie back. Not then. I was too far gone to think of it. I thought I was dyin' myself, an' all I cared about was makin' sure I took Justin with me._

 _But all that means,_ he recognized, _is that I didn't try somethin' that might o' told me she wasn't dead! It don't prove I didn't do somethin' terrible next mornin', when I first came to in the Management trailer._

He realized his cornfield memory hadn't come to an end. _How can there be more?_ Puzzled, he let himself slip back into it.

x

x

x

 _After I killed Justin..._

After he'd killed Justin, he felt himself falling forward, collapsing on his enemy's body.

But then, inexplicably, there was no body under him. Nor was there anything else! He was in free fall, going down, down, down...

 _What's happenin' to me? Omigod - did Justin fall through a door into Hell, an' am I fallin' through after him?_

Evidently not. The moment he thought of braking his fall, he succeeded, and settled down as lightly as a feather.

As he lay face down, grateful that he was no longer in pain, he gradually became aware of the mingled scents of flowers and new-mown grass...the cheerful twitter of birds...the warmth of the sun on his back.

 _I ain't in Hell._

He wasn't surprised at being somewhere other than the cornfield. He took for granted he was dead; that was what he'd expected.

He slowly rolled over and sat up.

Heaven - or wherever - might have been beautiful, but Ben took no notice of it. He saw only the two people who were standing over him. Smiling...and holding hands.

He leapt to his feet. "Ma? Pa?" He reached out to touch them, half-expecting them to vanish.

Instead, he found himself in his mother's arms.

"Oh, Ben!" She hugged him fiercely. "I'm so sorry 'bout the way I treated you! I just didn't understand. But now I do." She pulled back a little, to look into his eyes and stroke his face. "I love you. An' I'm so proud o' you!"

 _She ain't crazy no more..._

Scudder put his arm around Ben's shoulders. "That goes for me too, son. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more help than I did. But you made out just fine. What you did tonight was heroic."

"I love you both," Ben whispered. He clung to them, looking from one to the other. "The two o' you - you're really together now?" _That_ , he could scarcely believe.

"Yes," his mother assured him.

Scudder added, "We have you to thank for it."

Smiling up at Scudder, Flora said, "We've always loved each other -"

"And now," he continued, "all the misunderstandings have been cleared up."

 _All the misunderstandings,_ Ben thought, _and my fear that Pa might o' ended up in Hell 'cause he was a Creature o' Darkness. Glad I was wrong._

He belatedly took note of the fact that his parents looked no older than their mid-twenties. Heaven hadn't required that they don white robes or sprout the wings he associated with angels: they could have been dressed for a casual date.

 _In fact, for a nice afternoon at the carnival._

He asked shyly, "Will I be able to stay with you?"

"Uh, no." Scudder freed himself from Ben's grasp and took a step backward. "I think there may still be one misunderstanding here. You aren't dead, Ben! You've just strayed across a boundary, in your spirit body. We may have caused it, by wanting so badly to see and talk to you.

"You'll have to go back. I'm not sure why, but your work in your present life isn't done."

"B-but..." Ben didn't understand. "Even if I am still alive, I don't see how I can stay that way. I'm wounded, unconscious. Ain't Justin's men gonna kill me?"

"No." Scudder's eyes seemed to focus on another reality. "I'm sure you're going to live on...and I see how it will come about." In a flat voice, he reported, "You're in the cornfield...not in danger of bleeding to death...because you're lying on top of Crowe. Your wound is pressed against his body.

"His men will be too awed and frightened to do anything...at least without orders from someone in authority, which they won't receive. Come daylight, Samson and the other carnies will find you." He looked at Ben again. "I'm glad, son. I know you've had a hard life, but I wouldn't want to see you die at nineteen."

Ben wasn't sure how _he_ felt about it. Especially about his "work" not being done.

Impulsively, he asked, "Can I see Sofie before I go back? Make sure she's all right, like you two are?"

"Sofie? Apollonia's daughter?" Scudder frowned. "I don't think...wait." His eyes went out of focus again. After a few seconds they snapped back, and he said decisively, "She isn't here, Ben. She isn't on this side."

Ben stifled a gasp. _Not "on this side"? Does that mean..._

"N-no." He backed away, shaking his head. "You ain't sayin'...no! Sofie may o' been taken in by Justin, but I can't believe she'd wind up in the other place!"

"The other place?" Scudder looked confused for a moment; then he relaxed and smiled. "No, Ben, I didn't mean that the girl is in Hell! Sorry I wasn't clear. I meant that she hasn't crossed out of the realm of the living. She isn't dead."

"Isn't dead?" Ben felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Scudder told him. "Trust me, she's alive."

Ben did trust him. He wasn't sure whether Scudder possessed a type of sight he didn't because he was dead, or because he'd honed his Avataric powers for an additional twentysome years. But his certainty was enough to convince his son.

"Justin must have ordered her killed," Ben said slowly, "an' assumed it got done. But it didn't." He grinned. "I wonder if the carnies had somethin' to do with that?" He was thinking specifically of Jonesy.

And then he thought of something else. That evil idea he'd had, about inflicting a Black Blizzard on Justin's followers if Sofie was dead.

 _Oh my God._ _Would I really o' done it? I don't know..._

Momentarily forgetting his parents, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head in prayer. _Thank you, thank you, Lord! For protectin' Sofie,_ _ **and**_ _for lettin' me learn she's alive before I could hurt anyone._

His mother was asking, "Are you all right, Ben?"

He looked up at her, smiling through a sudden blur of tears. "I'm fine, Ma. An' now I understand why I was brought here."

As his parents bent over him, Scudder squeezing his shoulder and Flora planting a kiss on his hair, the Heaven-world dissolved around him and he sank into dreamless sleep.

x

x

x

In the present, he sat huddled on the floor of the confessional, quietly weeping. At last, he was shedding tears of relief and joy.

 _I wish I coulda spent more time with them..._

 _But I see what happened now. I lost that memory 'cause o' the shock o' Lodz's chokin' me. If I was conscious any time before then, in the cornfield or the trailer, I knew Sofie was alive._

 _So I ain't a mass murderer. Just like I told Samson in the first place, I didn't kill no one but Justin!_

His momentary feeling of triumph gave way to remorse for the small sin he _had_ committed. _Wishin' a Black Blizzard on folks, even for a second, was wrong. Jesus said we not only shouldn't do evil, we shouldn't think it. I thought it, an' I'm sorry._

More words from the Catholic form of Confession popped into his head. He sniffled, wiped his eyes, then got back onto the kneeling bench and recited softly, "For this and all the sins of my past life I am heartily sorry, beg pardon of God, penance and absolution of you, Father."

He'd barely gotten the words out when a voice asked, "Is someone in there?" The curtain of his cubicle was pulled back, and he turned to look up at an elderly man wearing a Roman collar.

He wanted to sink through the floor. But since that wasn't a realistic option, he said quickly, "I'm sorry, Father! I know I look like a drunk or a hobo or somethin', but I really ain't. I came in here lookin' for a quiet place to pray. I'll go! I just want you to know I didn't mean no harm -"

The priest said, "Calm down, son." As Ben stopped babbling, he scrutinized him...and the hand holding the curtain shook visibly. "You don't look like a drunk or a hobo," he said softly. "You look like...someone who has at least as much right to be here as I do. Maybe more."

Ben gulped, too startled to know how to respond.

"Would you like me to hear your Confession, formally?" the priest asked.

"N-no, thank you, Father." Ben hesitated, then blurted out, "I ain't Catholic."

The priest didn't appear surprised, let alone disapproving. He nodded, and said, "I have a feeling that if you really were in need of absolution, you've already received it. From God Himself."

Once again, Ben was left speechless.

The priest reached out to touch one of his hands. _The way folks wanted to touch the healer,_ Ben realized. _But he can't o' recognized me from photos!_ Then he drew back, saying respectfully, "Feel free to stay here and pray as long as you like. I'm sorry I interrupted you. Peace be with you!"

He dropped the curtain, and Ben heard his quickly departing footsteps. But he still whispered, "Peace be with you too, Father."

He actually didn't feel a need to stay any longer. But he thought the priest might be nearby, and if he left at once, the man would feel guilty about having disturbed him. So he spent what he guessed was another ten minutes in the confessional. He'd never been much good at formal prayer, but he offered heartfelt thanks to God for the gift he'd been granted that day.

As he left the church, the sun was low in the sky. Its rays illuminated the building's sign, compelling him to look at it.

When he did, he gave a soft gasp.

The only words he'd noticed before were "Church" and "Roman Catholic." Now, however, the sign informed the sometime user of the name "Benjamin St. John" that this particular church was dedicated to St. John the Evangelist.

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He was back at the carnival site before the sun dropped below the horizon. But he knew, as surely as if God had tapped him on the shoulder and told him, that the only reason it mattered now was that his being late would have alarmed Ruthie and Samson.

He left the car where he'd found it and raced to the midway, where Ruthie was talking up Gabriel's act. She caught a glimpse of him, broke off in mid-spiel, and ran into his arms. The dozen or so rubes who saw them kiss responded with good-natured applause - though considering Ben's grungy appearance, they must have thought Ruthie had weird taste in men.

She drew back to get a better look at his face; but she was already beaming. And weeping. "You're really all right now, ain't you?"

"Yep, I'm fine. An', Ruthie, _I didn't do it!_ " He couldn't risk saying what "it" was, for fear of being overheard.

Ruthie gave an indignant sniff. "I never thought you did!"

 _That's true,_ he reflected. _She never believed for a second that I'd killed all them people._

 _An' yet, if it turned out I **had** killed them, I know she woulda stood by me._

"I gotta go talk to Samson," he told her. "But I want you to be in on this too. Can you shut Gabe's act down, or find someone else to handle it?"

"I'll shut it down - it'll just take me a few minutes. You scoot on over so Samson won't be worryin', an' I'll catch up."

As they parted, she brushed suggestively against his crotch, and it occurred to him that he had another kind of "catching up" to do. In her bed.

 _I think tonight's gonna be a huge success._

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He found Samson in the Management trailer, and filled him in on his having become convinced that he hadn't killed Justin's followers. By the time he'd covered that, Ruthie had joined them, and he went on to make an announcement.

"I've decided what to do next. I'd be goin' the same route whether or not I'd done all that killin' - but I'll be a hell of a lot more comfortable knowin' I didn't.

"It's time for Benjamin St. John to come back from his 'retreat.' "

Samson burst out with a gleeful "Yes!" Then his face fell. "But how...?"

"I've thought it out," Ben explained. "Here's what we're gonna do. We explain in our advertisin' that everyone who wants to attend a healin' session - I won't call it a 'service' - has to bring a potted plant. Or failin' that, a caged mouse, rat, or bat. We come right out an' say I draw life-force from plants, or from small vermin-type animals no one cares about.

"The 'offerings' will be gathered together, an' dependin' on how many there are at a session, I'll be able to heal at least one person, prob'ly more. I'm guessin' a lot o' folks what don't need healin' will come, bringin' their plants or varmints, just to see what will happen."

Samson still looked dubious. "You didn't say nothin' 'bout life-force when you told the press you'd healed four people in New Canaan. There's gonna be questions asked."

"Remember the cornfield? I'll mention it, an' make it sound like that's what I was drawin' on. Hopefully, I won't hafta tell an outright lie. Photos taken the next day did show the cornfield was flattened. An' no one woulda been likely to oppose my usin' it. Plenty more corn available - crops are thrivin' in California."

Samson was nodding now, and his smile came close to rivaling Ruthie's. "Yeah. This could work!"

"It _will_ work," Ben said confidently. "But we're gonna do this my way, Samson. I ain't wearin' no tux, or any other outlandish get-up. Just regular clothes. I won't have Stumpy prancin' around callin' himself Brother Lazarus Dubois. An' no billin' _me_ as a 'Reverend'! We keep it simple an' dignified. The three of us - you, Ruthie, an' me - work together to decide who's most in need o' cures."

"Somethin' new around here," Ruthie observed. "Taste an' class! I think it'll go over big.

"An' 'bout the selections, Ben" - she took his hand and squeezed it - "thank you for includin' me. I promise I'll take the responsibility seriously."

"Me too," Samson chimed in. "We'll do this any way you say."

"Most important," Ben continued, "we don't ask for 'donations.' "

That didn't go over so well with the carny boss. "Hey, wait a minute!"

Ben grinned. "The carnival's gonna do okay, Samson. Better'n okay. I need you to promise you won't charge for the healin' sessions, or jack up the price of anythin' else. But the healin' will be goin' on inside the gates o' the carnival. It'll draw crowds - includin' a lot o' folks what ain't in need o' my help, just curious. Once there, they'll prob'ly move on to other things."

Slowly, Samson's smile returned. But then he asked, "What about the Dreifusses?"

After a moment's thought, Ben said, "I got no complaint 'bout the Dreifusses. Rita Sue ain't bein' forced to do what she does, an' no one else is bein' forced to buy what she's sellin'. They may have a problem with Libby's not wantin' to rejoin the act, but they ain't got one with me."

He was already thinking ahead. "Maybe the healin' sessions will become 'services' at some point. If Justin's still spoutin' off, sayin' things I think are dangerous, I might start answerin' him." _I know that on one level, all that church sign meant - St. John the Evangelist - is that the saint may o' been the author of a Gospel. But on another level, was there a message for me?_

"Yeah!" Samson said enthusiastically. "Like I told you in New Canaan - he's nothin' but talk, an' you're the real deal, 'cause you can perform miracles. Why would anyone believe him over you?"

"Be careful," Ruthie put in. "Remember, he claimed Ben's powers come from the Devil."

"That's one argument he can stick with," Ben acknowledged. "An' if it don't fly - if folks think the power to heal can't be evil - he could turn out to have the same power himself. Maybe he just ain't tried to heal no one yet. Nothin' would surprise me at this point.

"An' that," he continued with a frown, "brings me to a problem that's gotta be discussed. I'm thankful I didn't kill them seventeen thousand followers o' Justin's. But who the hell did kill them? An' who restored Justin to life?

"We thought" - well, Samson had thought, and put the idea in his head - "that if I killed his followers, a sin on that scale might o' brought him back. But we were just graspin' at straws. Whoever killed the seventeen thousand may o' _wanted_ to bring him back. We simply don't know."

After a long silence, Ruthie ventured, "He did it himself? Maybe, as a demon, he was able to come back to life. An' then he killed all his followers, so's he could blame it on you."

Ben shook his head. "I can't see him bein' able to come back after he was dead. Avatars don't have that kind o' power."

Samson asked sharply, "Was Jesus an Avatar?"

That was a question that made Ben squirm. "Yeah. I mean, maybe...hell, I ain't sure," he admitted. "I'm uncomfortable thinkin' about it. An' based on what I got from Belyakov, most Avatars raised as Christians have been uncomfortable thinkin' about it.

"We're brought up to believe Jesus was someone special, unique in history. Then we learn what we are. An' thinkin' we may be exactly what he was seems blasphemous."

Samson had a new gleam in his eye. "Do you believe he really rose from the dead?"

"The Bible says he did."

"S'pose he did," Samson continued. "What if he was an Avatar, but you _ain't_ exactly what he was? You've said Crowe's different from other Dark Avatars 'cause he's the Usher. What if, in all o' history, there was one super-special Avatar of each kind? Jesus an' Justin Crowe. An' they had the power to raise themselves from the dead. When Justin did it, he killed a bunch o' people for the purpose o' blamin' you, like Ruthie said.

"Or...here's another possibility 'bout the Jesus-an'-Justin part." Samson was on a roll. "Maybe they didn't resurrect themselves. S'pose, _once_ in history, God intervened personally to raise a Prophet o' Light - Jesus - from the dead. But His doin' that gave Satan the right to also do it once - to restore one o' _his_ Prophets, at any time he chose."

Ruthie shuddered. "An' Satan waited till it would wreak the most havoc, when humans are about to create weapons that can kill millions?"

Ben was sorry he'd brought it up. He said uncertainly, "I reckon there coulda been no one but Justin or Satan involved."

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But that night, when Ruthie was sleeping the sleep of the very satisfied, he sat at her vanity, staring at the moonlit mirror.

He saw nothing but the reflection of his own face.

But when he reached out and touched the mirror's surface, his finger began tracing words in what he _knew_ were the exact locations they'd appeared before.

If the message was unimportant, why were its psychic vibrations still so strong?

 _Sofie is the Omega..._

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The End


End file.
